Archive for The Hen House Gazette

Want to Have a Baby? Just Adopt.

We’ve all known at least one couple who has tried forever to have a child then finally given up and adopted — only to find themselves pregnant shortly thereafter!

I don’t know what this odd sequence of events might be called, and my theory is not based on scientific evidence, but I’m pretty sure this amazing phenomenon applies to chickens too.

Two of the Foreign Adoptees

I have a hen, Blondie, who has been “setting” on the nest for six weeks trying to have a baby.  The normal setting time is 21 days, or 3 weeks, and hens go into a zen-like meditation experience during this time, only getting up occasionally to take a hasty bite and drink in order to survive. I think it’s kind of like hibernation for a bear.

After 6 of Blondie’s 7 eggs suddenly disappeared in the third week  (a snake, we’re sure), she was not deterred. She simply moved her egglet to another spot, added another egg (of her own or someone else’s, I do not know), and went back to setting.

The weather was very hot. I feared for her welfare. But she told me point blank that she was not going to give up. I didn’t even know if her two eggs were fertile, but even if they were I knew they were not due to hatch any time soon.

So after a friend found small batches of baby chicks online for a somewhat reasonable price (some places wanted $95 to ship 5 chicks, the chicks costing about 3 bucks a piece!!!), she and I placed an order for 4 chicks each. Wyandottes, which would be dark fuzzy little things. I knew Blondie wouldn’t care what color they were. After all, adopting children from foreign countries seems to be all the rage these days.

I kept my fingers crossed that Blondie wouldn’t give up after all, which would mean I’d have to raise the chicks myself.

She was true to her word and was still setting when the chicks arrived through the postal service, just 1 or 2 days old, alive and well. It was six weeks to the day since Blondie had taken on this project.

In accordance with standard procedure for such things, I waited until after dark, snuck into the hen house, and carefully shoved the 4 little fledglings in under Blondie’s plump body. She pecked at me once, but then seemed to realize a miracle was occurring, so rose up and tucked the youngsters in amongst her feathers.

All went according to plan and the next morning there were four dark, foreign babies hopping all around Blondie, using her body as a jungle gym and pecking at baby food. I checked them twice more during the day and all was well. The other hens were bubbling about, obviously excited about the new arrivals, and Mr. Smarty Pants, our rooster, was keeping a safe distance but clearly guarding the nursery.

Late in the day, at the evening horse feeding, I went in one last time to make sure everyone was all right. I only saw two chicks so was slightly alarmed. I wanted to make sure nothing had gotten the others so I gently prodded Blondie to stand up so I could make sure the rest of the brood were underneath.

You guessed it. Not only were the two missing chicks there, but one other as well — a tiny, few-hours-old, fuzzy yellow sibling, just hatched! I just started laughing!

The New Arrival

I guess Blondie knew what she was about after all, and the arrival of the adoptees just spurred along the natural processes.

Now we’ll see what happens with that last egg. Blondie is taking good care of her brood, but she is still setting ……….

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Can Love Boost Egg Production in Chickens?

girl holding chickenCan love boost egg production? I definitely think so. Those of us who have chickens definitely benefit from loving our brood. Not only from minimized chasing and pecking when we enter their pens, but also from (I think) increased egg production.

That said, I must admit I am going all out to sustain my brood’s egg laying during the coming winter months.

Apparently, scientifically speaking, chickens need at least 12 to 14 hours of light each day to lay eggs regularly. So, as all you chicken people know, your hens “lay off” during the winter months when daylight hours are short and don’t produce many eggs at all. Hardly any, to tell the truth.

What is one to do to encourage regular egg-laying during those short, dark days of winter?

Much is to be found in answer to this question online. Indeed. And here are a few of the answers:

1. Provide your hens with 14 – 15 hours of light each day.

2. Provide your hens with warmth.

3. Put a little cayenne pepper in your hens’ water to pep up their internal thermostat.

… from here on out are my own suggestions. BUT, they are based on my own chicken research over the past decade or so.

4. Give your chickens fresh greens every day (yes, even if you have to buy them in the winter — or give them some of your horses’ alfalfa).

5. Go in your chickens’ pen every day at least 2 or 3 times and talk to them. Play like you are bringing new delectables, even if what you have isn’t that special.

6. Provide interesting water. Fresh and running, if possible. A fountain would be nice. Mine have a “pool” that I refresh twice a day in summer.

7. Talk to them. When one egg per day was being pecked apart and eaten a couple of months ago, I zeroed in on the errant hen and had a serious discussion with her about cannabilism. Since our talk not one egg has been ravaged.

So here we are. It is now suddenly winter. And here’s what I’ve done for my chickens, not only because I love them, but because I really, really want to have their eggs throughout the winter.

1. I built them a huge hen house, complete with electrical outlets for various accoutrements.

2. I roofed a small yard area just outside their door so that, even when we have snow, they will be protected and can go “outside.”

3. I fenced in and covered with bird mesh another yard, outside their “inside” yard, so that they can really, really go outdoors (the mesh is to protect them from predatory birds). That is where their summer pool is.

4. I have gates and doors between all areas to insure their security, and I lock them in very carefully every night.

5. They have a lovely camping ground spot (an old shed) for passing time during moderate seasons — I call it a hovel, but they seem to love it and demonstrate that by occasionally laying eggs in it and by sleeping on it’s low roof during warm evenings.

What else? Oh!

6. Yesterday I spent the entire afternoon hooking up bright lights on a timer in their house so they’ll have the prerequisite 15-16 daylight hours in which to do their duty (eggs!). I also hooked up two heat lamps over their swank, homemade nighttime roost (which, so far, they have snubbed their little beaks at in favor of the roof of the aforementioned,  hovel for sleeping on). And, last but not least, they now have a heated water bowl. Ta dum!

I trust all this will pay off. All I want is a few eggs a week out of the deal. That’s not an unfair trade for the hundreds of dollars and dozens of hours spent on my chickens’ behalf.

But you know what? I think my love for these guys matters the most. They know me. They get real excited when I come to their pen. They cluck and posture and beg and flap for whatever tidbits I might be bringing them. We have conversations. They love the attention.

Never mind that my rooster, Mr. Smarty Pants, immediately dive bombs my feet if I walk in wearing a pair of shoes or boots he doesn’t recognize. On the whole, I just know it’s all about love with these chickens. And I will report back on egg production mid-winter.

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Bessie Has a Guardian Angel (or an orb … or a ghost!)

Bessie & Her Guardian Angel Orb, 6/15/09

Bessie & Her Guardian Angel Orb, 6/15/09

I know I’m blogging a lot about Bessie right now, but when I took her picture a couple of days ago while she was out and about with the horses, I noticed something I’ve noticed before in her pictures: a lovely white orb hovering over her head.

The first time I saw this orb was when I took a Madonna and Child shot of her with her new babies on April 2d of this year. It did not surprise me at all to see an orb keeping her company. Bessie has led a truly charmed life and survived many calamities — it sure seems like someone extra special is looking out for her! Why not an orb?

Guardian "Orb" Sitting on Bessie's Tail! 4/2/09

Guardian "Orb" Sitting on Bessie's Tail! 4/2/09

Here’s what I know about orbs, and to further check out this phenomenon you might visit a site like this one: http://tinyurl.com/2eck8

I first learned about orbs back in 2003 when visiting a friend who was obsessed with ghosts. Digital photography was still coming into the mainstream at the time, and it had been discovered (by whom I have no idea) that certain forms of plasma that heretofore were uncapturable on the run-of-the-mill 35 mm camera most people owned became visible in digital format. I think this may have been kind of an accidental discovery, not sure, but no matter what it was poo-poo’d (and still is) as being dust particles and all sorts of other what-have-you’s.

My friend had a brand new digital camera, so we decided to go out to an old cemetery one night and see what we could see. It was mid-January, frigid, and windy — perfect conditions for ghosting, right? It was scary as hell!

Well. My friend had read that it was best to kind of protect oneself with prayers before approaching unearthly beings, and then to kindly ask permission from them to photograph them and try to prevail upon them to “show” themselves in the photo. So, in spite of flapping coats, hair whipping around all over the place, and our toes freezing off, we took the time to do all that and then started taking pictures.

Another small detail that is important to know: if you get ghosts in your pictures, they deplete your camera battery much more quickly than normal — like about ten times — so if you go out ghosting be sure and take extra batteries. We did. And our camera batteries went dead after only 5 or 6 shots.

But woo-hoo! We couldn’t believe what we got. In one picture there were probably 20 orbs just standing there, or rather hovering there, over their headstones, just staring at us . . . in an orb sort of way. We got orbs of all sizes and varieties, in every picture.

A few years later I took some shots of two children up in the hay loft of the old barn on my ranch. It was an old, old ranch, a place full of spirits if ever I knew one. I took several shots, all the same, and out of the blue one of them had a bunch of orbs in it! I had forgotten about orbs so was pretty wowed. The kids had not moved to stir up dust, and my camera was clean. And the little girl was so scared by the time I finished shooting that I had to climb up the ladder and carry her down. Count on a kid to dispel your doubts!

Lots of Ghosts Who Came to be Photographed

Lots of Ghosts Who Came to be Photographed

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Bessie Flew the Coop!!!

Bessie, Keeping Her Preferred Company

Bessie, Keeping Her Preferred Company, the Horses

As she raced by me and squeezed out the gate like greased lightning, I distinctly heard Bessie say: “I’m done! I’m outta here!”

This was yesterday morning. I was entering the chicken coop. And she was exiting it — and not to be deterred!

It took me a few minutes to realize what had just happened and to register what she had just told me and what it meant. Then I just had to chuckle to myself because Bessie has always had such a knack for self-realization and manifesting her dreams. And she had just done it again.

You may recall from earlier blogs that Bessie is 9 years old, an age few of her feathered friends reach. She has survived foxes and coons in Texas, coyotes and hawks in New Mexico, and several broods of wild crazy babies — the latest being made up of 10 chicks I brought her on April 1st of this year (April Fool’s, Bessie!). Being the gracious maternal spirit she is, she welcomed them warmly and gathered them up under her fluffy self. She even quit moulting in order to deal with her new family.

But “Enough is enough!” she told me yesterday. (These babies are almost her size now, and quite demanding!)

In retrospect, I have noticed in just the past week or so that Bessie has been feeling very fussy with her family, very irritable. If one happens to be standing in a particular spot Bessie doesn’t approve of for instance, she just gives it hell and instantly banishes it to the outer yard. And Lord have mercy should one take a bite of bread she has her eye on! She’s just been in a really bad mood.

I guess Bessie needed a break, just like every mom does sometimes.

As soon as she was out the gate, Bessie heaved a chicken sigh of relief and pleasure and started clucking and eating bugs that one simply cannot find in an enclosed chicken yard. As soon as she had feasted on those a bit, however, she ran over to the barn to dive into her favorite-of-all-time snack: horse manure! She was in Seventh Heaven, chirping and rooting around under Copper’s feet while he ate, happily picking out invisible-to-the-naked-eye fly larvae from his recent poop.

“Ah, this is the life,” she muttered pleasurably.

In Texas my chickens were always at liberty (“free range” in nouvelle cuisine lingo) during the day, safe in their hen house at night. But in New Mexico that doesn’t work so well. There’s just something different about the predators here, even though they are fewer in number and type than we had back at the Texas ranch. Go figure.

So, after losing Bessie’s 3 remaining buddies last fall, all in one fell swoop, I decided it was time for my beloved Bessie to move “indoors.” We had been through way too much together for the past 9 years for her to become one more piece of coyote bait.

Bessie spent the winter all alone, under a heat lamp in a small abode with a small yard attached. True to form, she seemed quite contented until lo and behold one day she had a new, huge hen house and yard plus 10 new chicks to mother, and that was the icing on her cake. She was ecstatic!

Yesterday I allowed Bessie 24 hours of freedom, which she spent in and around the barn and hay room, her favorite place of all, before throwing a big white sheet over her this morning in order to return her to the safety of the hen house.

She resisted just a little, but kind of breathed a big sigh as I set her down amongst her brood. I think she was secretly relieved to be back with the family, and she seemed to be in a much better mood.

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The True Meaning of the Word “Cocky”

Mr. Pants, Inventor of the Word "Cocky"

Mr. Pants, Inventor of the Word "Cocky"

At the risk of inviting thousands of blog hits by folks searching for pornography (I should be so lucky – with the hits, I mean, not the porno freaks), I just today really grokked to the true essence of the word “cocky” and from whence it most assuredly must have come.

Mr. Pants, this very morning, began learning to crow. It sounded like someone trying to learn to play the washboard – sorta. It was really beyond description. And believe me, any being brave enough to emit that kind of sound out loud has definitely got to have balls enough to be called cocky! And of course, as you all know if you’ve delved back into the bowels of this blog, Mr. Pants is just that — a young cock.

Born April 1st, he is just coming on 2-1/2 months of age and, true to his history is continuing to perform quite precociously in all respects. You may recall that he’s the one who, within days of his birth, learned to simply “leave the building” through the wire mesh fence and go on long forays outside the safe chicken yard. We knew then he was a rooster, and a smart one at that, thus he was dubbed “Mr. Smarty Pants” by my friend April — “Mr. Pants” for short.

A couple of weeks later, when his siblings who had followed a more normal developmental rate began catching up with him, he showed several of them how to leave the premises as well. Alas, he lost one of his followers to a quick coyote one early morning, and a 2′ chicken wire barrier was quickly erected around the entire pen to prevent further escapades.

All of this is by way of saying that Mr. Pants = cocky, hence my new definition:

. . .the primary trait of a being who is so totally sure of themselves they will perform in an exhibitionist manner and will unabashedly pursue whatever their cocky little heart desires, destroying all in their path . . .

The Webster’s definition of cocky as someone who is boldly or brashly self-confidant/jaunty doesn’t begin to capture the true meaning of the word and is indeed quite frivolous and trivial in my opinion.

And I would venture a guess that whoever came up with that definition had never raised a rooster. And they had certainly never met Mr. Pants!

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Bombs Away! (Dive-Bombers, That Is.)

Dive Bomber!

Dive Bomber!

This weekend I accomplished a major feat for my feathered friends, the hens. Well . . . for the hens and Mr. Pants, the coming-of-age, very precocious rooster who was supposed to be a hen.

In this part of the world — the high desert — where there aren’t a lot of big trees, but lots of open spaces, losing small animals to predatory birds is very common. Unfortunately cats number among that lot. But we’re not talking about cats here. For now, I’m talking about chickens.

Last year, about this time, when I was still allowing my small brood of hens to run free, I literally had to wrestle one of them away from a hawk who had her pinned to the ground and was trying to figure out what to do with her. I think the hen was a little heavier than the hawk had anticipated, so lift-off was somewhat difficult, fortunately for me and the hen. I did win the fight, and that hen survived (only to be snapped up months later by a more successful predator whose identity is still an unknown, but I digress).

Now that my new flock is securely enclosed in a rather plush henhouse with two yards and plenty of space, all inside a fence that is totally coyote proof, its only exposure to mayhem is from the sky. I had not thought this would be much of a problem, as the inner yard is covered with wire mesh and shade cloth, and the outer yard is about half taken up with a huge cedar tree whose limbs stretch out all over the place, including snaking around on the ground, which the chickens love.

But oh no. I should be so lucky. Just a mere few days into the introduction of the new accommodations, I looked out my window to see a huge black raven waft gently down out of the sky and land in the cedar tree. He sat there eyeing my then still-small chicks as Bessie quickly herded them all inside under cover. So . . . so much for that theory. (And yes, ravens will eat chicks — don’t know about full-grown chickens yet.)

Cutler’s Poultry Supplies to the rescue. I ordered large amounts of “poultry netting” from them and this weekend strung it up in all directions around the cedar tree, wherever there was exposure from above. Mr. Pants’ hen twin went with me the entire time, stepping along and watching my every move.

Like her brother, this henlet shows signs of being a most inquisitive and intelligent chicken, so is fast becoming one of my favorites. I hate to think about giving her a name because I don’t want to lose her. And, after several years of experience, it appears that as soon as you become attached to a chicken enough to name it, that ensures its demise. . . . except for Bessie, who’s 9. . . . and Mr. Pants, who seems to be indomitable. But again, I digress.

Anyway, we got the netting all up so now it looks like a Ringling Bros. trapeze act out there.

At least I know that if some brash sky-diver DOES come zooming down from the heavens, at least he won’t be hurt!

Never a dull moment around here.

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We’re In Mourning

Yep. A wily coyote with prey in mouth. I love the coyotes. I just want them to leave my chickens alone!

A wily coyote with prey in mouth. I love the coyotes. I just want them to leave my chickens and cats alone! (AND my chihuahuas.)

Mr. Pants became so adept and cavalier about his outings through the fence that he taught four other chicks his trick. But, not being Zen Buddhists like he is, they were not quite as quick on the draw about how to get back into safety. They just couldn’t seem to remember where that best ingress/egress point was in the fence.

I noticed this going on for a couple of days and was becoming quite perturbed about it and figuring I’d need to get some more chicken wire to shore up the bottom of the fenceline after all. I had hoped the chicks, in their bionic growth spurt, would quickly become too large to fit through the holes and that this would solve the problem. But that didn’t happen right away like I thought it might.

You can probably tell where this story is leading.

Early yesterday morning, just after dawn, Bessie began yelling (in what I now realize was an effort to call me to her aid). After about 15 minutes of this, which is how long it took for the light bulb to finally turn on in my brain, I let Charlie, my heroic Golden Retriever/Chow mix, out, and boy did he take off! By the time I got up to the chicken yard there were still three or four chicks running around outside it like (dare I use this phrase) “chickens with their heads cut off”, and Bessie was wringing her feathers because she had not been successful at getting them back inside to safety. That did take some doing on my part and hers as well, but we finally lured them all back in.

Everybody was up in a heaval, for sure! Bessie immediately herded her babes  inside the hen house and tucked them under cover as best she could. So I couldn’t count them. Sigh. I had a feeling . . .   An hour or so later, when they had all recovered, and whatever the immediate danger had been had passed, they ventured out again, if a little tentatively at first. Sure enough, much to my dismay, there were only nine wee ones instead of ten. I searched everywhere, thinking maybe I’d missed one when herding them inside earlier. But nothing.

We figure a coyote came cruising by at just the right moment, scooped one up, and took off  (hopefully with Charlie on his tail soon thereafter).  Or it could have been one of the large ravens that frequent my barn in the spring — yes, they do eat baby chicks. Ugh. Needless to say it wasn’t Mr. Pants who got, uh, eaten. He’s so darn smart I’m sure he headed for home the instant he realized there was danger!

Bessie was obviously grieving. She is not your regular self-absorbed hen, you know, and she seems to be a very advanced soul, so was well aware of what had transpired and stayed near an outer corner of the yard watching for the missing chick for hours. We felt so badly! Needless to say a quick trip to Lowe’s later and we now have a lot more chicken wire up around the perimeter of the fence, and NObody can get out! We also covered what amounts to an “inner” yard with mesh over the top so that we have at least one safe haven from dive-bombing predatory birds.

I thought this would take care of all our problems but then, about 10:00 a.m. this morning, I happened to walk over to the window that has a view of the chicken yard and watched in horror as a huge black raven ever-so-casually flapped down and landed in the top of the big cedar tree that is smack dab in the middle of the outer chicken yard!

Back to the drawing board — how to create “Chicken Alcatraz.” Martha Stewart was able to do it. Why can’t I?!

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Is “Mr. Pants” a Buddhist Monk?

A Buddhist Chick?

A Buddhist Chick?

One of Bessie’s chicks has notably long legs and is bigger than all the rest. A friend and I immediately pegged this baby as, horror of horrors, a rooster! I only say “horrors” because all ten chicks I bought were supposed to be hens, which is what I wanted because of the eggs. I have nothing against roosters as a general category of worthy beings, and I have had some admirable ones. But roosters can also be downright NASTY! So I just thought I’d avoid the whole ‘nasty’ thing by buying all female chicks.

Within hours of venturing into the enlarged chicken yard I had erected days after the chicks’ arrival, this little guy figured out that he could quite easily scale the “chick barrier” we had put up along the bottom of the fence and pop out into the real world whenever he wanted, in order to fulfill his exploratory nature and expanding soul (?? this is where the questions come in).  And he could pop back in just as easily, whenever his mother called or I was in the yard offering culinary delights. He really knew what he was doing and went about it with a will!

At first I was alarmed, picturing him as an appetizer for a watchful owl or hawk or one of the coyotes that lurk around the property awaiting their next meal. I thought he was lost and had gotten out by accident. Ha, ha. He proved me so wrong in the next moment when he went to his ingress/egress point and popped back through the fence to join his family.       . . . the laugh is on me, apparently. I quit worrying, and my friend and I dubbed him “Mr. Smarty Pants,”  “Mr. Pants” for short.

After a few days of this my friend asked me, “Leta, how can a baby chicken not even two weeks old be this smart and aware? I mean, um, do you think animals, um,  can be reincarnations of advanced spirits, and stuff like that?”

Aha. Therein lies the question. Some people still don’t think animals even have souls. Needless to say, my answer to that question is a given:  YES! But, in answer to my friend I simply told her what I believe:

Buddhists believe that humans can choose to reincarnate as animals, and Buddhism is a very ancient religion. So who am I to say yes or no to my friend’s question? And yes, I often observe animals who seem to be advanced beyond all possibility. But I never make a judgment about why unless the animal itself tells me firsthand that he or she is an incarnated being, a great master in a past life for example. Then I take them at their word, and listen hard, and enjoy whatever teachings they may have to impart. (And I have learned a lot from these occasional interludes, believe me.)

So is “Mr. Pants” an advanced spirit or not? Is he a rooster or not? As to the second question only time will tell. As to the first, maybe we’ll have a talk with him in a few months when he is grown and see if he imparts any deep, soulful wisdom or if he just crows his head off like his feathery counterparts.

By the way, my friend also felt that little Frida, our new puppy, exhibits the same characteristics of advancement as “Mr. Pants.” We shall see.

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Bionic Chicks!

Jungle Gym Time

Jungle Gym Time

Bessie’s chicks are two weeks old today. And they’re totally bionic! They’re not only huge for their age, they are breaking all the rules. For one thing, to my understanding, chicks are supposed to be kept above 90 degrees farenheit until they have lost all their baby fuzz and have real feathers. That means either keeping them in a box under a heat lamp, if you’re raising them yourself, or, if you’re a mother hen, keeping them pretty much “under wraps” (that would mean under your own feathers) any time the weather is less than sunny and very warm. Then and only then would you venture out of doors with them, and then only for a brief, supervised learning expedition.

Apparently none of this applies with Bessie’s brood. She took it upon herself to start their education early, at about the 3-day mark, fluffing them out the henhouse door and into the yard in search of small specs of choice morsels, invisible to the naked human eye but obviously a great delight to her babies, as they all would run in a single mass for whatever delectable tidbit Bessie was showing them at the moment, and pile on. Who got the morsel? Quien sabe? I sure couldn’t tell.

We had three days of snow, rain, and cold over the Easter weekend, and each and every day those chicks were out in it, snuffling and pecking about in the sodden mess of their yard. And at this point I can tell it’s not all at Bessie’s bidding. They are, in fact, starting to run amok over her. Not only do they keep her from resting by pushing her up off the ground so they can all crowd under her at bedtime, but they take great liberties with her body, using her as a jungle gym and slide whenever they take a notion.

I’ve had several broods of chicks, and these really do take the cake (and just about anything else I’ll feed them, for that matter). All I can attribute it to is the Super Blue Green Algae powder, manufactured by Simplexity Health, that I’ve been sprinkling on their food. I started doing it to make sure their mom stayed fit, as raising 10 youngsters at her ripe old age is quite a feat.  The algae is such an incredible superfood that it has the entire family pumped up like a bunch of little Navy Seals.

Bessie is doing fabulously well herself and seems to really enjoy her brood. She is teaching them many things each day, including how to flap up into the low tree limbs of the cedars in their pen, how to share a piece of bread (not really), etc. But she also ran over to me at the gate this morning, yelling “Let me out, let me out, let me out!” I had to make it clear that was not an option because there were coyotes waiting everywhere to snap up her and her babes. She demured, remembering her previous flock’s fate, and went back to her teaching duties.

But frankly, I would dare just about any coyote to come take on this crew! (Unless it’s on Super Blue Green Algae too!)

(P.S. If you’re into “orbs,” check out the big one hovering over Bessie. Looks like she and her family have a vigilant guardian angel, doesn’t it?)

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Bessie is a New Mom — at 9(0)!!

Bessie and Her New Peeps

Bessie and Her New Peeps

Bessie is a 9-year-old Auracana hen, the type that lays what a friend of mine calls “Martha Stewart” eggs, in lovely gray-greens, soft blues, and muted turquoises. Bessie has a gorgeous array of auburn feathers, each delicately traced with a fine herringbone pattern in silver. Nine is ancient in chicken years, at least 90 for us humans, and few hens live to be even close to that age. Much less lay eggs or raise families beyond the age of three or four.

But Bessie is an exception. She has lived through the lives and deaths of dozens of chicken cohorts and has raised several broods of babies. She survived intense trials this last year, including a long drive and big move to arid desert from her previous lush home, as well as the dessimation of her immediate family by the voracious local coyotes. Due to this unfortunate turn of events, Bessie has spent her first long winter in this harsh new environment alone. But, typical of her unique style, she has seemed quite happy.

Having just had a coyote-proof hen yard erected, along with a hen house large enough to house a family of ten in a third world country, I naturally have been eager to expand my hen population so as to enjoy once again  not only the incredible richness and flavor of my flock’s yard eggs, but also their company. There is just nothing like having chickens!

Bessie hasn’t laid an egg in a few years now, nor has she raised a bunch of chicks in quite a while, but I had a talk with her and proposed that I bring her a ready-made brood of 1-day-old chicks this spring to provide her with much-needed companionship and to replenish her flock. Normally a hen will not accept orphan chicks unless they are already “setting,” or in what is called a “broody” mood, but I figured Bessie would strongly prefer this  scenario over a bunch of upstart pullet-type interlopers invading her territory.

I was right. Bessie agreed wholeheartedly and demonstrated her earnestness right away by trying out several possible nesting sites in her new hen house. I told her the day before I was going to pick up the chicks, and she celebrated that afternoon by going out and taking a nice dust bath in the sunshine.

Even though Bessie seemed enthusiastic about our plan, I must admit I was a little nervous that she might succumb to more typical hen behavior and refuse the chicks once they arrived. My plan was to slip them underneath her in the dark of night, while she was asleep, which usually works well with a hen who is already “expecting” and feeling in the broody mood. Since Bessie was not, I felt very unsure of the outcome.

But, of course, our dear Bessie came through. I hadn’t realized that the red heat lamp hanging in her house (which is not supposed to disturb nocturnal animals at night or appear like real light) did indeed shed enough light for Bessie to see clearly what was transpiring, as my daughter and I unloaded seven wee chicks, one by one, and nudged them gently toward her. Always one to honor her part of an agreement, Bessie immediately fluffed up to twice her size, started what could be called a mother-hen “purring” sound, and tucked the babies all up underneath herself. I went to bed elated, saying blessings and sending thank-you prayers all around.

All seven babies emerged this morning, healthy as could be and completely bonded to their new mom. She cluckingly demonstrated to them how to peck at their food and explore their territory, then tucked them back underneath herself for another long nap.

Needless to say, I ran back to the feed store this afternoon for three more chicks, to round their numbers up to an even 10 — which is about the maximum Bessie’s body can shelter properly. When I returned and presented them, Bessie didn’t bat an eye. Just took one look and tucked them in!

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